Masquerade
by Konstantya
Summary: Chibitalia tries to play matchmaker, Austria disapproves, and Hungary has a very memorable time at the Carnival of Venice. (AustriaxHungary—except, well, you'll see.)


General Note: I'm only going to reformat my fics so much when this site is the one at fault. So if the formatting is weird, please check out my profile for more info. Thank you.

A/N: O hai there, Hetalia fandom! I've missed you! Have a fic! It turned out a hell of a lot longer than I expected it to!

Just a quick note/reminder/whatever, that since it _is_ Chibitalia here, Austria and Hungary still think he's a girl. So the pronouns and whatnot reflect that.

Time period: I dunno. Early- to mid-1700s? Sure, let's go with that.

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**Masquerade  
**

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"…and it'll have a big skirt, and lace around the neckline, just like this, and it'll be green of course, because I know that's your favorite color, and—oh! Mr. Austria!" With a sudden nervousness, Italy looked down at the table at which she and Hungary stood. Its surface was littered with sketches and open books. "I-I'll clean everything up, I promise! I didn't mean to make such a mess—!"

Striding into the room, Austria gently held up a hand to cut off any more of the girl's frantic apologies. "Easy, Italy," he said, making his way to bookshelf across the way. "Libraries are for research as well as relaxation, you know. Though," he confirmed, with a sideways glance back at the table, "I _would_ request that you tidy up when you're done."

Hungary smoothed her hands down the front of her skirt and took it upon herself to offer an explanation. "Italy was just helping me come up with a costume for Carnival. Since you were kind enough to let me go with her."

"Oh?" Austria tucked the book he'd brought with him back into its proper space on the shelf and then walked over, peering at the books and papers. Italy, bolstered by his interest, proudly presented her most recent sketch—a great formal ball gown, with enough ornament and opulence to render even a monarch jealous.

"See, Mr. Austria? And it'll have slippers and a mask to match. And it'll be green," Italy added, because, clearly, this was a very important detail. "Don't you think it'll be pretty?"

Austria lifted an eyebrow at the drawing, at the low neckline and full skirt and lace embellishments, and couldn't avoid the mental image that came to mind, of Hungary in such a gown. "Indeed," he murmured simply.

Hungary blushed and briefly worried her bottom lip. "You know…you could come with us, sir. If you wanted."

Austria raised his head to look at her, but before he could respond, Italy piped up, positively bubbling with excitement at the idea. "Oh, yes! Please do, Mr. Austria! There's something for everyone at Carnival! And I know _just_ what you could dress up as!" She grabbed for one of the books strewn across the table, and quickly shuffled through the pages, her tongue stuck out the corner of her mouth in concentration. Finally, she found the right page. "See? You could be a plague doctor! It would be perfect with your eyeglasses!" And she pointed to a picture of the costume, with its characteristic beaked mask and lenses.

A smile twitched at the corners of Austria's mouth. "I'm flattered by the invitation, but I'm afraid I must decline."

Italy's shoulders drooped in disappointment. A moment passed in silence, and then Hungary bent down, putting her head right next to Italy's. "Come on," she whispered, playfully conspirative, "let's clean this up so Mr. Austria can get on with his reading. We can continue plotting our costumes in my room." Italy nodded dolefully and began gathering her sketches. Austria shot Hungary a grateful glance and returned to the shelves to browse. In a few short moments, he heard her usher the little nation out of the room, and a serene silence settled upon the library.

A few minutes later, after Austria had idly wandered from philosophy to drama, there was a tentative creak and knock at the doorway. Italy poked her head in, her sketches still in hand.

"E-excuse me, sir…but I think I forgot one of my drawings…"

"Hmm?" Austria glanced over, and then absently waved the girl in. "Oh, yes, come in, come in. Just try not to take too long." Italy curtsied her thanks and carefully padded into the room. Austria turned back to the books in front of him, trying to decide upon an author. After having retrieved her drawing, just as she was about to make her way out of the room again, Italy suddenly slowed. And then stopped altogether. Hesitantly, she shuffled her feet and turned to look at him.

"…Are you _sure_ you won't join us, Mr. Austria?"

Austria tossed a small, cursory smile her way. "Thank you, but no. I have duties here I should attend to."

"But…but what about Miss Hungary's affections for you?"

His heart skipped a beat. He stared very intently at the book bindings, not daring to look over at the little nation. Once assured of his composure, he swallowed, and his next words came out nice and level. "Her affections, be they for me or anyone else, are really none of my concern." But still, Italy wouldn't relent.

"Then what about your affections for _her!"_

Austria froze, in the middle of plucking a random volume off the shelf, and he was sure some of the color drained from his face. Was he really so obvious? Or was it simply that the little Italian nation was just unusually perceptive about matters of the heart? God, he hoped it was the latter. The thoughts came and went in an instant, and he turned his head, leveling a hard, admonishing look at the girl. His voice came out like black ice. "You will never speak of that again, is that understood?"

Italy bit her lip, fidgeting her drawings in her hands, her small brow furrowed. And then, in a sudden, passionate display, threw down the papers. "But how can you say that!" she cried, stamping her foot for good, angry measure. "I've seen the way you look at her—"

_"Italy!"_

The girl went silent at his sharp, livid tone. Her fingers nervously grasped at her skirt, and the worry on her face was unmistakable. Austria thought he might have even seen her quivering in fear.

He let out a contrite sigh and ran a hand through his hair, trying to calm himself. He went over to the younger nation and carefully knelt down in front of her so that they were on the same level. The girl was on the verge of crying, and Austria suddenly felt like an enormous cad. "Italy…" he began, searching for the words, "you have to understand… I _can't_ be with Hungary. No matter how I feel about her."

Italy sniffled and raised wondering, almost pleading eyes. "But…_why?"_

"Because she is my _maid."_ Italy blinked in utter incomprehension. Austria sighed again and tried to find a delicate way to explain. "If I were to court her…people would talk. They would…start saying bad things about her."

Italy's eyes widened incredulously, as if she couldn't believe such a thing possible. "About _Miss Hungary?"_

Austria nodded gravely. "I don't want that to happen to her. I _can't_ let that happen to her. And neither can you," he pointedly added, the firm master returning. "Now. You need to promise me that you will never speak of this to anybody."

"But—"

_"Italy."_

She worried her hands in her skirt again and looked down at her feet. Finally, morosely, she gave in. "…I promise."

Austria breathed a sigh of relief. He gathered her forsaken sketches, tucked them back in her hand, and gently turned her toward the door. "Go on now," he said. "She'll be waiting for you."

Italy sulked out of the library, and once he was alone again, Austria let out a long sigh. Wearily, he raised himself to his feet. Oh, to be as young and naïve as the little Italian nation. Perhaps then he actually could have entertained the possibility of a relationship with Hungary. But as it was, he wasn't, and couldn't.

It didn't often bother him. He had his duties and his hobbies to keep him busy, after all. Usually it was enough that they lived under the same roof, that he saw her on a daily basis, that he could be in her presence, and they could share a few smiles here and there. But sometimes…sometimes…he _did_ find himself craving the ability to touch her, to take her in his arms and kiss her. He'd never really concerned himself with women, but sometimes he found himself _very_ concerned with Hungary, and sometimes, just sometimes, almost found himself wishing she _wasn't_ a servant in his house. That she was her own country, on equal footing, and thus one he could court properly.

Bah. It was foolish, hopeful nonsense, that. Even if she _was_ her own country, who was to say they wouldn't be at each other's throats? Look at his relationships with France and Prussia, after all. Or even worse, maybe it would be _he_ who was the servant and _she_ who was the master. No, it was better this way. Better for his people, and better for his peace of mind, and if it so happened that Hungary was out of his romantic reach because of it, well, that was the price he paid. He was old enough and worldly enough to know that one simply couldn't have _everything_, no matter what the ambition and lust for power in his veins said.

Austria shook off the train of thought. He'd come in here to read, not pine like some lovesick fool. Making his way back to the shelves, his eye caught on the table Italy and Hungary had been at. Obviously a drawing wasn't the only thing the girl had forgotten, because a book still sat there, wide open. He went to go close it, if not actually put it back where it belonged, but stopped when he saw which book it was—the one Italy had leafed through, still open to the image of the plague doctor, and Austria let his eyes wander idly over it.

It was cute, in a way, how Italy had suggested the costume because of the glasses he already wore. Never mind that his vision wasn't actually that bad. He'd started wearing them a few hundred years ago, now, back when they were riveted things that pinched the bridge of the nose, because he'd thought they made him look older. More intellectual. More serious. His bosses had started to take an earnest interest in his growth and education by then, and he'd become acutely aware of how important appearances could be, of the impact they could have on one's authority. And as an up-and-coming European power, he'd latched onto eyeglasses, and the studious impression that came with them, as an extension of that. These days he wore them more out of habit than anything; they'd been an accessory of his for so long, and he tended to think his face looked rather plain without them.

He traced the picture of the plague doctor with his fingertips and let the corner of his mouth quirk up. It was quite the costume, that was for sure. Bizarre and even monstrous, yet professional in its own, historical way. In another time, under different circumstances, he might have agreed to don such a thing, but the raucous streets of the Venetian Carnival were hardly the place for him. Especially not now…

_But what about Miss Hungary's affections for you?_

He had suspected for a while now that his feelings for her might have been requited. But while he was by now an expert at reading political innuendo, he was rather less adept at reading romantic innuendo, and so was hardly about to trust his own judgment on the matter. After all, Hungary was sweet and kind to everyone she liked. That she talked with him and smiled at him and cared about him didn't necessarily mean anything.

But if it did… If Italy's words could be taken as a confirmation of sorts…

His pulse quickened at the mere possibility, and he took a deep breath, stubbornly willing his heart to calm itself. Even if it _was_ true, and she really _did_ admire him, it wasn't like he would be able to act on that knowledge. He would still be the master, and she would still be the maid, and that was that.

Austria thoughtfully traced the image of the plague doctor one last time, and then finally, decisively, closed the book.

-  
-o-  
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"Miss Hungary, come _on!_ We have to see the acrobats!"

Hungary panted, squeezing her way past a man dressed as a demon and a woman dressed as a cat. Italy tugged relentlessly at her hand, willing her to go faster, but it was a losing battle. The streets of Venice were teeming with people, and the simple fact of the matter was that, while Italy was small enough to quickly navigate her way around, Hungary was far too adult-sized—and was in far too big a dress—to manage the same thing. Eventually, she decided to make the whole situation easier on the both of them and gently disengaged herself from the little nation.

"You go on," she urged, when Italy looked back at her questioningly. "Don't worry, I'll catch up with you, I promise. But I could use a bit of a breather." She put a demonstrative hand to her bodice, and the corset underneath, and good-naturedly waved the girl off. "Now go!"

Italy laughed and nodded. "Okay. But don't be long! You'll love the acrobats, I just know you will!" Hungary laughed back, and with one more wave, the girl was off, expertly zigzagging her way through the crowd.

Hungary let out a sigh of relief, despite herself. She was enjoying herself, for sure—how could she not when there was so much beauty and entertainment all around her?—but it was hard to keep pace with the little nation. The girl was positively in her element, bouncing ardently from one activity to another with a fervor that belied her usual leisureliness. And though Hungary was hardly out of shape, after almost four days of this, she couldn't help but find herself grateful for the momentary reprieve.

Taking advantage of it, she made her way to a nearby cart and got a cup of punch to quench her thirst. In addition to being grateful for the chance to catch her breath, she was—once again—grateful that Italy had convinced her to go with a half-mask. The girl had insisted that, to someone not experienced in the ways of Carnival, either a Bauta mask or a half-mask was the way to go, as they allowed the wearer to talk with ease—and perhaps more importantly, _eat_ with ease. Hungary had no doubt that that was the main reason (if not the _sole_ reason) the little nation had chosen to wear a Bauta mask, herself—the bottom of it characteristically jutting out and away from the chin; it seemed whenever the girl wasn't dragging Hungary from place to place, she was stuffing herself with pasta and pastries and all sorts of local treats.

Besides, Italy had said, a half-mask would go _meravigliosamente_ with her costume, and while it was the Italian nation's festival, that didn't mean Hungary shouldn't have as much fun as possible. And so there she was, dressed up as a right and proper noblewoman, in decadent emerald green and gold, pinned hair, fan, and all. It was, Hungary had to admit, terribly exciting in its own way. Such a change from the servant's dresses she was so used to.

Unsurprisingly, it had taken her a while to get used to that whole "being a girl" thing—once she'd realized she _wasn't_ going to sprout a penis, and once she'd figured out those muscles growing on her chest _weren't_ muscles—and while she still loved her trousers as much as she ever had, over the decades, she'd developed a certain appreciation for women's fashion. It was all so pretty and different. Exotic, one might have even said. And what a better time than now to exercise that appreciation? She'd certainly never have an occasion to wear something so fancy back at Austria's house, that was for sure. Not when she was simply _Hungary, the maid_. But here on the streets of Venice, hidden by mask and moonlight, here she could be _Signorina Ungheria_, and Hungary was tempted to think that that made all the difference.

Her punch now gone, Hungary started to make a move in the direction she'd seen Italy run off to and almost bumped into a clown on the crowded street. She curtsied an apology, marveling at the enormous white ruff around his neck, and as she craned her head to watch him go, succeeded in backing right up into a naval captain.

"Oh, dear! I'm so sorry," she said, whirling around. A mass of black curls and burgundy ostrich feathers poured from his tricorn, and he shook his hands, anxiously waving her words off. He offered an apology of his own in the form of a great, deep bow, and Hungary couldn't help but giggle at his exaggerated gestures. "You won't talk?" she guessed. Really, it was amazing the type of characters Carnival attracted.

The captain shook his head gravely, confirming her suspicion. Hungary giggled again. The nearby street musicians were warming up for another song, a makeshift dance floor forming, and in what appeared to be a fit of spontaneity—either that, or shameless, opportunistic flirting, Hungary thought with a laugh—the captain extended his hand to her.

"Dance with you?" she asked. The captain nodded. And in a fit of spontaneity, she grinned and said, "I'd love to." One dance wouldn't be so long, and surely Italy wouldn't begrudge her the indulgence. It wasn't every day a naval captain asked her to dance, after all. And so, mustering as much prim properness as she could, she placed her hand in his and let him lead her to the square.

It was a tarantella, full of lively steps and latched arms, and while such a dance wouldn't normally have been a problem, her extravagant dress weighed down her body and tripped up her legs to such a degree that she was almost stumbling more than dancing. It was so utterly ridiculous, but Hungary was in such a good mood that she couldn't help but laugh at herself, even letting out an unladylike snort at one point—which of course just made her laugh at the more. Her captain, bless his soul, didn't seem to mind one bit. Even seemed to be charmed by it, if the crinkled eyes behind his white mask were any indication. At the end, when all was said and done, he led her gallantly off of the floor, and Hungary leaned on his arm for support and laughed at his theatricality.

Their dance over, he gave her another sweeping bow, and Hungary managed to respond with a curtsy that was really quite graceful, despite everything. She flitted her fan like any respectable noblewoman would, and smiled coyly at her naval companion. "Well, thank you, kind sir," she said, getting into character, herself, "for sticking though all that as my partner. Is there anything I might be able to offer in return for my abysmal, _abysmal_ dancing?"

The captain tilted his head and put a finger to his cheek in feigned thought. A moment later, he perked up, an idea apparently striking, and extended a finger toward her lips. And then, with the same finger, touched the lips of his mask.

"A kiss?" she guessed. The captain nodded. Hungary laughed and pointed out, "But you'd have to take off your mask, and we can't have that. It would be against the spirit of things."

The captain put his hand back to his chin in thought. After another moment, he snapped his fingers. Quickly, he put his hands to his person, fumbling in his haste for a velvet sash around his waist. When it was free, he held it out in front of him and gestured towards her head.

Hungary gaped incredulously. "A blind-fold?" The captain pressed his palms together, silently entreating, looking for all the world like the most pious saint to ever grace the earth, and Hungary suddenly realized that he was serious. He honestly wanted to kiss her, and was honestly suggesting a blind-fold as a way to preserve the mystery. And if it were any other day, Hungary would have laughed it off and said forget it, but as it was, the atmosphere of Venice was intoxicating and infectious. This was Carnival, after all. Wasn't the whole point of it to be somebody you otherwise weren't and to do things you otherwise wouldn't? So, to hell with inhibitions.

"Alright," she agreed gamely, her mouth stretching back into a smile. "But don't let this costume fool you," she added, wagging a finger at him. "You try anything funny, and you're getting my fist in your gut. And don't think I can't do it." The captain very solemnly laid a hand upon his heart and held the other up in the air, swearing his good behavior. Hungary laughed, and with that, he gently took her arm and pulled her into a nearby alley to afford them a little bit of privacy. She gave him one more suspicious smile, closed her eyes, and then presented her face. A moment later, the sash went around her head, one of the velvet tails brushing against her exposed collarbone on the way, and her breath hitched at how illicit this all suddenly felt. Velvet and brocade and feather and lace, everything lush and exotic, the whole of Venice buzzing around them, strings and flutes and lamplight and alleys, and here she was with a complete stranger, a man whose face she didn't even know, whose _voice_ she didn't even know, about to share something as intimate as a kiss.

Perhaps it was for the best that Mr. Austria hadn't joined them on the trip. Much as she liked him and was even, she had to admit, attracted to him, he never would have indulged in a kiss in a dark alleyway, and never would have approved of _her_ indulging in such a thing, either. Would doubtless find such behavior wanton and improper and might even lecture her about it later. But really, wasn't she _due_ a bit of wanton, improper fun after all this time of taking care of his stuffy, regulated house? And if she couldn't be with him—and she _couldn't_, because even supposing he _did_ have feelings for her, there was still the issue of their respective positions—then why _shouldn't_ she enjoy herself, if only for a moment, in a foreign city with a masked stranger?

There was a rustling of fabric, the touch of a leather glove gently against her chin, tilting her head up, and then all thoughts of Austria were swept away. Because he _wouldn't_ have indulged in such wanton, improper behavior, that was certain—and he most _definitely_ wouldn't have kissed her like this. Slowly and passionately, his lips warm and soft and oh-so sensual. With her vision gone, her world had been reduced to touch and taste and smell and sound, everything close and amplified, and by the time he pulled away, her heart was racing and her cheeks were burning. There was another rustle as he fixed his costume, and then his fingers were at the back of her head, gently untying the blind-fold.

"Well," Hungary said, a little breathlessly, once he'd led her back onto the main street. "Thank you for that, as well." She flitted her fan in front of her, no longer just for show, and couldn't help but wonder if he was maybe just as flushed as she was. She stared up at him, trying to discern something, anything, from his eyes, the only part of him that was undisguised, but it was to no avail. She had a hard time even distinguishing their color. She thought she might have seen a glimmer of dark blue, maybe even bordering on violet, but it might have just been a reflection of lanterns and costumes.

The captain gave her another great bow, catching her hand in his, miming a kiss to the back of it—and it was then that a young, irate voice broke through the air, and consequently through the spell that had settled between them.

"Hey!" Italy yelled, rushing up to them. "You get away from her!" Without warning, and with an uncharacteristic fierceness, the girl suddenly stomped on the captain's foot. He gave a muted grunt—the closest thing to speech Hungary ever heard from him—and backed up. "That's right!" Italy continued to shout. "You leave her alone!"

"Italy!" Hungary chided. "What's gotten into you?" She glanced back up to where her captain had been, but all that was left was empty space; he'd apparently disappeared into the crowd and was gone from her life just as quickly as he'd entered it. There was a sudden, dull ache in her chest at the loss, but she shook it off with relative ease. She'd known going in that it would only be a momentary affair, and besides, there were more important things to attend to. She turned back to the little nation in front of her. "I wasn't in any danger. Corset or no, you know I can throw one hell of a punch if I need to."

Italy crossed her arms petulantly, and Hungary just bet she was pouting under her mask. "But it isn't right! You—" The girl broke off, shoulders tensing, fingers fidgeting, and then simply repeated, "It isn't right!"

Hungary knelt down and patted her head. "Alright, alright," she soothed. She still didn't understand why the girl was so concerned about the situation, but figured the least she could do was take those concerns seriously. "There's no need to be so upset. Besides," she pointed out with a reassuring half-smile, "it's not like I'll ever see him again. I don't even know who he was!" There was another pang of regret, but Hungary decided right then and there that she was going to look on the bright side of all of this. Maybe she'd never know who her captain had been, but she'd gained a memory worthy of the most romantic literature out there. Surely that had to count for something.

Italy seemed to take some solace in the words, and Hungary fed off of it, playfully tweaking the nose of the girl's mask. Despite herself, Italy giggled, and, reassured all was set right again, Hungary stood up and clasped her hand. "Now," she said, bracing herself for another run through the crowds, "you said there were some acrobats I had to see?"

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-o-  
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There was a knock at Austria's office door. "Come in," he called.

With a bit of effort, the knob turned, and Austria looked up to see Italy very carefully toeing her way in. A coffee tray was gripped tightly in her hands and her eyes were locked on it, practically every nerve in her little body devoted to the effort of delivering it without a spill or slip.

"Italy," Austria remarked, eyebrow dipping in puzzlement. "I'm surprised to see _you_ bringing me coffee. Is something the matter with Hungary?"

Italy simply shook her head a little, not daring to speak yet. It was only after she'd set the tray down and deposited his coffee on his desk without incident that she seemed to relax, letting out a great sigh of relief. But then she noticed Austria still staring at her expectantly, and a new sort of nervousness overcame her. "I…I asked Miss Hungary if I could bring you your coffee today," she admitted.

Austria quirked an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Italy nodded. "I…I wanted to tell you something."

Austria gestured for her to go on. "Well?" he asked. But Italy just grasped at her skirt. Austria let out an exasperated sigh. "Is it about your trip to Venice?" he tried. Italy nodded.

Austria's brow furrowed. Italy and Hungary had returned not two days ago, and the girl had been exuberant ever since, recounting tale after tale of their trip to anyone who would listen. So to see her suddenly so pensive, even if it _was_ just the two of them in the privacy of his office, was a little perplexing. Unless… A thought struck Austria, and his expression fell. "Don't tell me you're craving pasta _already._ Hungary tells me that while you two were in Venice, you had enough pasta to feed a small army—" He was about to go on, but broke off when the little nation anxiously shook her head.

"It's not that," Italy said, and Austria blinked at her. Whatever it _was_ must have been pretty serious, for the girl to dismiss pasta so easily. He waited, and still she said nothing, shifting uncomfortably in place. Austria sighed again, set his pen down, and reached for his coffee. Might as well drink something while he waited.

"She was flirting with someone, you know," she finally blurted out. "A _man,"_ she specified, with extra rancor. It was impossible to not know who the girl was talking about.

Austria's hand froze, porcelain at his lips, and he arched an eyebrow at the little nation over the top of the cup. "Oh?"

Italy nodded furiously. "He even kissed her hand! Well, I mean, not really, because of his mask, but—you know!"

The corners of his mouth wanted to twitch at the ferocity in the girl's words, but he managed to suppress the urge. Instead, he took a drink, set the cup down, picked his quill back up, and smoothly said, "Thank you, Italy. That will be all."

The little girl's cheeks puffed out petulantly, and for a moment, she looked more like her older, more troublesome brother. "But don't you care at _all?"_ she cried.

Austria occupied himself with dipping his pen into its inkwell. "I've already told you I cannot court her," he said, calmly, almost wearily, cutting off the girl's tirade. "If she has decided to aim her affections elsewhere, then so much the better for her."

"But—"

_"Italy,"_ he said, leveling a stern look at the girl. "You will drop this matter."

Italy's shoulders slumped at the order, and she looked desolately at her feet. After a moment, she muttered, "Yes, sir."

Austria took a brisk breath and tried to project an air of gentleness. "Thank you for the coffee. And I'm glad your visit home was a pleasant one."

Italy nodded, and with an unenthusiastic curtsy, took her leave.

Once in the privacy of his own company, Austria sighed. Forsaking his work for the moment, he set his pen back down, then opened one of his desk drawers. Tucked in the bottom was a burgundy ostrich feather, and he plucked it out, ran it thoughtfully over his lips, and smiled at the memory of her kiss.

.

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A/N: SO WHO GUESSED IT WAS AUSTRIA BEFORE THE REVEAL AT THE END THERE? (I fail at mystery, OTL.)

_"Meravigliosamente"_ is Italian for "marvelously," or so the online translators tell me. If this is wrong, please let me know so I can correct it.

I really liked how I was able to play up Italy's sense of fashion in this, if only a bit. I also really liked how I was able to work in his badass side (because, oh Italy, you do have one!). It's a bit unfortunate that that badassery manifested itself in the form of a cockblock, but hey, I'll take what I can get. And, like Hungary, y'all knew it couldn't last forever, so.

Anyway, thanks for reading!


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